


Hands Off the Wheel

by CircularShades



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Adrenaline, Bentley Car Sex Challenge, Car Sex, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), M/M, Sex in a Car, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-30 17:30:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19408006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CircularShades/pseuds/CircularShades
Summary: Crowley has been looking forward to the advent of self-driving cars.





	Hands Off the Wheel

The Bentley goes fast and turns tight. It always has. When Crowley first acquired it, it had been a perfectly mundane luxury model with a top speed of sixty mph, though almost as soon as he’d started driving it, the car had started to _change._ Crowley had purchased the best, fastest car, and now he was going to _have_ it, and keep having it without having to ever track down another one.

He kept the look, because he liked it. Everything else? Up for grabs.

Aside from that time he drove it through an inferno, Crowley’s never tried to make the Bentley too unrealistic. He wasn’t doing ninety down Oxford Street in the 1930s, or cruising around with a CD player in the 50s. He's never tried to _invent_ something humans didn't get to first. No matter how the car's evolved over the years, it has never exceeded what’s currently possible.

Which is to say, Crowley has been looking forward to the advent of self-driving cars. _Real_ autonomous cars, that don’t need specially-marked streets or have abysmal limits on speed. While he does enjoy the act of driving, with Aziraphale there, the idea of having _options_...

They're on a dark and almost-deserted highway, somewhere that isn't England. One of those countries that can really let their roads spread out. Crowley climbs over the gearshift, settles into Aziraphale’s lap. There’s room for him, somehow, a combination of Crowley’s liquid-flexible joints and the assumption that, of course, there _would_ be room for him there. Aziraphale is clutching his seat belt. He agreed to this ride on the condition he be allowed to have one.

“We are going… _very_ fast.”

“Eyes on me, angel.” Crowley is making it easy for him, taking off his glasses with one hand, reaching down past Aziraphale with the other, and the seat is reclining back with a couple of mechanical _thunks._ In a moment, the only way to tell they’re still moving will be the rumble of the tires and the _whoosh_ of air slicing past. “We’ve got you.”

The car is shifting lanes. The wind presses harder against one side, the sound of another engine is already retreating behind them. Aziraphale sucks a breath through his teeth.

"We could be-"

"We will _not_ be discorporated, because this car knows what it's doing." Crowley's eyes are more yellow than white, slit pupils widening to ovals while he holds Aziraphale's attention: projecting adrenaline and lust, but also _faith_ in the vehicle that’s hurtling them around a sloping curve _._ Aziraphale grips the strap at his side a bit tighter.

"For God's sake, Crowley, do not undo my seat belt."

Crowley leans in. The kiss is soft but sure: it lingers until the tension in Aziraphale starts to melt, then a little longer. When Crowley pulls back, Aziraphale opens his eyes.

"For _your_ sake," Crowley counters, "I won't."

He restarts the kiss, hands smoothing over the angel’s sides. The road slides under them, the car starting down a long, level stretch. The radio clicks on, and Freddie sings: _Get down, make love._ Crowley rolls his hips: searching, asking with his body what Aziraphale wants, finding a thick cock hardening inside the angel's trousers. He can spare enough imagination to give himself a twat. Easiest way, arranged like this.

They barely get undressed. Crowley's vest is still half-on and his jeans are only past his hips - _bless_ stretch fabrics - while he makes himself wet against Aziraphale's erection, gropes at the skin behind undone shirt buttons. He sinks down onto Aziraphale with a hiss, and the whole car shudders, or maybe they hit a small bump.

Then Aziraphale is holding Crowley's hips instead of the straps, and Crowley is holding Aziraphale inside him, and someone says: "I've got you." Crowley rises up to brace his hands on the ceiling, and Aziraphale forgets that he's supposed to be afraid. The Bentley drives through the night like a shot, while inside, they're gripping each other like rubber on the road.


End file.
